I lie in bed for an hour, just thinking and feeling. At 8:00 (real
time), I shower, and Lola and I go for a walk so she can pee. The landscape
(paisaje) here is beautiful. I wish I could include pictures in this
travelogue, but the internet here is very weak, to put it kindly. It takes
forever to get a connection.
I am continuing one of my thoughts I had mulled over while lying in bed.
One: I would not try to cross the border today, because it is Sunday, and there
will be a line-up. Two: I think I will stay here another day because this is
just a beautiful, calming place.
It is strange, actually. On my walk with Lola, I saw a primitive road,
two parallel stone tracks, leading down to the tennis court. The tracks are
mostly overgrown with weeds. I feel as if I’m in some kind of Henry James
novel, a place built for the wealthy, who have long since abandoned it, leaving
it as a bed and breakfast for this indigenous woman and a much older man, Reinhart,
perhaps her father, who seems to do the labor, to take care of. The landscape
is beautiful and expansive—far more than one would expect of a hotel with four
rooms, most of which are empty.
Lola and I go upstairs for breakfast at 8:30. El perro de Cecilia,
Blacky, is a small, aging dog lying on the landing leading into the restaurant.
He snarls at Lola, but Lola is learning not to answer these kinds of aggressive
conversations; she walks barklessly on her leash around Blacky.
We go out on the restaurant deck, where Cecilia has coffee, pineapple,
mango, and banana slices ready for me. She comes out and asks what I want for
breakfast. I ask for eggs and toast, and then unsuccessfully try to get an
internet connection so that I can post my travelogue and take care of some other
business. When she returns, I ask her, puedo quedarme aqui por una dia mas? Por
supuesto, she says, clearly pleased that I want to stay another day.
By staying here, I am slowing time almost to a stop. I know it’s silly,
but I feel as if I have won some kind of battle, doing the obvious when my
social conditioning has taught me to do otherwise. I am savoring every bite of
this breakfast, paying attention to each moment. I am on this deck overlooking
the beautiful landscaping, beyond which lie the lake and the mountains behind
it. To my right is a feeding stand for birds. A dozen or so different colored
birds, like parakeets, are feeding there. A little later a large, colorful bird
arrives for its breakfast. It’s an ojo pendula, Reinhart tells me, and he
tosses out food, which the Ojo catches.
After breakfast, I rewrite and try to repost some of my blog entries—and
write thankyou notes to some friends who have responded to my travel postings,
but no luck. No connection. That’s not a sign.
Then Lola and I go for another long walk, down to the pond, where she
splashes for a while, down to the tennis courts, through various kinds of
jungle trees and over to an edge where the open land is bordered by an
impassible jungle. There seems to be some kind of steep drop there, and down
below, I hear rushing water. Lola tries to get down there, but the jungle is so
thick that she gives up and comes bounding out of the foliage.
This is how we have passed our pleasant morning. A warm wind is now
blowing off the lake as I sit on the porch overlooking the landscape and lake,
writing this post, Lola lying on her blanket beside me. I would like to say I’m
at peace, but I’m not. But I’m close. It’s so quiet here, one can hear time
breathe.
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